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Chinese  Lyrics 


Chinese  Lyrics 

FROM   THE   BOOK   OF   JADE 

Translated  from  the  French  of 

JUDITH  GAUTIER 
By  JAMES  WHITALL 


[Third  Printing] 


NEW  YORK 
B.  W.  HUEBSCH 

MCMXXIII 


Copyright,  1918,  by  B.  W.  Huebsch 

PRINTED  IN  U.  S.  A. 


SAT/ 

F  3  Q  ?o 


Contents 

PRELUDE,  9 

MID-RIVER,  21 

TO  THE  MOST  BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN  OF  THE  FLOWER 
BOAT,  2  2 

ON  THE  ROAD  TO  TCHI-LI,  23 

SONG  ON  THE  RIVER,  25 

INTOXICATION  OF  LOVE,  26 

A  DWELLING  IN  THE  HEART,  27 

THE  BIRDS  ARE  SINGING  AT  DUSK,  28 

THE  CORMORANT,  29 

THE  SHORELESS  SEA,  30 

MOONLIGHT,  3  I 

THE  WILD  SWANS,  32 

AT  THE  river's  EDGE,  34 

THE  LEAF  ON  THE  WATER,  35 

THE  GREAT  RAT,  36 

THE  FORBIDDEN  FLOWER,  37 

VENGEANCE,  38 

THE  FISHERMAN,  39 

BEFORE  HER  MIRROR,  40 

THE  PORCELAIN  PAVILION,  4I 

THE  TRANQUIL  RIVER,  42 

THE  WILLOW  LEAF,  43 

YOUTH, 44 


iSByai" 


THOUGHTS  ON  THE  SEVENTH  MONTH,  45 
THE  AUTUMN  WIND,  46 
A  POET  SMILES,  48 
THE  FAN,  49 

A  YOUNG  POET  DREAMS  OF  HIS  BELOVED  WHO  LIVES 

ACROSS  THE  RIVER,  50 
ON  THE  RIVER,  5  I 
TO  FORGET  ONE's  THOUGHTS,  52 
ON  THE  RIVER  TCHOU,    53 


Prelude 


Prelude 

(AFTER  JUDITH  GAUTIER) 

In  China,  the  fame  of  a  poet  is  not  won  as  in  other 
countries ;  more  gradual  in  growth  there,  it  is  accord- 
ingly truer  and  infinitely  more  lasting.  And  for  a 
poet  to  presume  to  judge  his  own  verses  worthy  of 
being  printed,  or  to  arrange  a  collection  of  them  was 
an  unheard-of  occurrence  in  that  ancient  empire,  and 
it  rarely  happens  now,  except  under  a  foreign  influ- 
ence. 

At  a  gathering  of  scholars  each  poet  sings  his  verses 
in  turn;  he  has  the  scrupulous  attention  of  his  audi- 
ence, and  if  one  of  the  poems  proves  to  be  exceptional 
his  companions  request  the  privilege  of  copying  it. 
Those  who  keep  it  in  their  note-books  recite  it  again 
at  other  similar  gatherings,  and  allow  it  to  be  copied 
afresh.  Thus,  in  a  select  circle,  the  name  of  the 
poet  diffuses  itself  like  an  agreeable  perfume. 

Sometimes  an  independent  author  addresses  him- 
self directly  to  the  people.  He  writes  his  verses  on 
the  wall  of  a  quarter-entrance,  most  often  without 
signing  them.  People  stop  and  read  them,  and  those 
for  whom  they  have  a  meaning  comment  upon  them, 
and  discuss  and  explain  them  to  those  who  are  anxious 
to  understand.  If  a  scholar  passes  and  finds  the  poem 
worth  the  trouble,  he  makes  a  copy  of  it  which  he 
keeps  for  his  friends,  and  eventually  he  puts  it  with 
others  similarly  discovered.     Poems  kept  in  this  man- 

[9] 


ner  are  soon  wafted  from  mouth  to  mouth,  become 
famous  and  in  the  end  popular.  It  is  then  posterity 
and  a  sort  of  plebiscite  which  determines  a  poet's 
claim  to  distinction. 

A  century  or  more  often  passes  before  an  Emperor 
issues  the  command  to  a  committee  of  scholars  to  in- 
vestigate all  the  poems  created  during  a  certain  pe- 
riod of  years,  which  have  been  perpetuated  by  fame, 
in  order  to  collect  them  into  volumes.  Thus  a  book 
is  formed  like  a  bouquet  of  rare  flowers,  and  in  its 
pages  the  poets  fraternize  good-naturedly,  and  their 
verses  complement  and  contrast  with  each  other  in 
charming  diversity. 

It  is  true  that  if,  during  their  lives,  the  authors 
were  able  to  foresee  their  fame,  they  never  could  be 
sure  of  it,  and  only  rarely  were  they  present  at  their 
triumph.  In  a  few  cases,  however,  poets  have  been 
known  to  receive  tributes  of  appreciation  and  almost 
of  adoration  from  their  contemporaries,  especially 
when  the  enthusiasm  of  an  Emperor  advanced  them 
to  high  posts  at  Court  and  exhibited  them  to  the 
world  in  the  limelight  of  special  favour. 

So  it  was  in  the  case  of  the  magnificent  pleiade  of 
great  minds  that  illumined  the  reign  of  Ming-Hoang 
in  the  eighth  century  of  our  era,  and  which  supplies 
even  today  the  models  and  the  oracles  of  poetry,  as  if 
they  were  its  patron-saints.  Yet  even  the  works  of 
these  poets  were  not  published  during  their  lives. 
And  now  a  few  scattered  sheets  of  thin  paper  or  white 
satin,  decorated  with  delicate  designs,  are  the  only 

[lo] 


records  of  those  priceless  poems  that  have  been  pre- 
served with  such  reverence  that  not  a  single  one  has 
been  lost. 

Among  the  names  that  posterity  has  gathered 
through  the  ages  for  the  bouquet  of  immortality, 
those  of  Li-Tai-Pe,  Thou-Fou,  Ouan-Ouey,  Tchan- 
Jo-Su,  and  Ouan-Tchan-Lin  are  the  most  notable. 
Li-Tai-Pe  and  Thou-Fou  are  acclaimed  the  great- 
est, without  the  Chinese  daring,  however,  to  decide 
which  surpassed  the  other.  'When  two  eagles  soar 
into  the  heavens  and  are  lost  to  view,  which  of  them," 
they  say,  "can  be  said  to  have  flown  nearest  to  Par- 
adise?" 

The  poems  of  Li-Tai-Pe  are  cast  in  a  brief  and 
original  form,  difficult  rhythms  are  frequent,  and  his 
style  is  coloured  with  rare  and  carefully  chosen  im- 
ages, and  rich  in  allusion,  implication,  and  irony. 
Like  Omar  Khayyam,  he  intoxicated  himself  pas- 
sionately, extolled  wine  the  only  consoler,  and  threw 
the  veils  of  inebriation,  like  gold-spangled  shrouds, 
over  the  bitterness  of  this  life  and  the  dread  of  that 
to  come.  And  behind  the  screen  of  intoxication, 
this  poet  concealed  serious  breaches  of  etiquette,  at 
which  the  courtiers  often  took  offence,  but  the  Em- 
peror exercised  towards  him  an  untiring  lenience. 
Some  of  the  Ministers  even  reproached  him  for 
compromising  the  Imperial  dignity,  but  to  that 
Ming-Hoang  replied,  "All  that  I  do  in  behalf  of  a 
poet  of  such  genius  can  only  bring  me  prominence 


in  the  eyes  of  superior  men.  I  am  not  concerned 
with  the  opinion  of  others." 

One  day,  having  caused  Li-Tai-Pe  to  be  sum- 
moned so  that  he  might  ask  him  to  celebrate  a  splen- 
did flowering  of  peonies,  on  which  he  was  gazing 
with  Tai-Tsun,  his  adored  favourite,  the  poet  pre- 
sented himself  quite  benumbed  with  intoxication, 
and  the  Emperor,  with  his  own  hand,  stirred  the  po- 
tion that  was  to  disperse  the  fumes  of  the  saki,  in 
order  to  cool  it  more  quickly. 

The  Chinese  say  that  Li-Tai-Pe  died  of  the  moon, 
which  is  peopled,  apparently,  with  the  ideal  figures 
the  poets  have  created,  and  where  all  the  fiction  of 
their  dreams  is  realized.  One  gorgeous  night  the 
poet  was  supping  on  the  Great  River  with  his 
friends;  the  atmosphere  was  unusually  translucent, 
and  the  water  was  so  clear  that  it  was  practically 
invisible.  The  moon  shone  at  the  bottom  of  the 
abyss  as  well  as  in  the  heavens,  and  there  were  as 
many  stars  beneath  as  above.  Bending  over  the  gun- 
wale of  the  junk  as  if  fascinated,  Li-Tai-Pe  gazed 
steadfastly  into  the  depths.  "In  unknown  regions," 
he  said  suddenly,  "there  is  neither  height  nor  depth. 
The  moon  is  calling  me,  and  causes  me  to  under- 
stand that,  to  reach  the  world  beyond,  it  matters 
little  whether  one  descends  or  ascends."  Forth- 
with a  chorus  of  harmonious  voices  was  heard,  a 
great  whirlwind  lashed  the  tranquil  waters,  and  two 
young  Immortals  bearing  standards  stood  before  the 
poet,  messengers  from  the  Lord  of  the  Skies,  come 

[12] 


to  invite  him  to  take  his  place  in  the  regions  above. 
A  dolphin  appeared  and  Li-Tai-Pe  laid  himself 
calmly  on  its  back.  Then,  preceded  by  the  celestial 
company,  he  was  carried  beneath  the  waters  towards 
the  moon,  and  disappeared  forever. 

Cynics  would  ask  one  to  believe  that  the  poet  was 
perhaps  simply  drowned,  but  who  cares  to  believe 
that?  A  temple  has  been  raised  to  this  subtle  and 
supercilious  scholar,  where  eternal  homage  will  be 
paid  to  him  who  is  called  in  China — noble  country 
where  temples  are  erected  to  poets — The  Supreme 
Lord  of  Poetry. 

Thou-Fou  has  admirers  who  not  only  declare  him 
to  be  the  equal  of  Li-Ta'i-Pe  but  who  even  prefer 
him  to  that  poet.  His  poems,  though  less  strange 
and  unexpected,  are  just  as  picturesque  as  those  of 
his  great  friend,  whom  he  recognized  as  his  master. 
They  are  more  easily  translated,  being  freer  from 
affectation,  and  they  are  clearer,  fuller  of  feeling 
tenderness,  of  sympathy  for  a  grief-stricken  human- 
ity. Less  Chinese,  perhaps,  they  are  more  universal, 
more  within  our  ken. 

Thou-Fou  held  the  office  of  Imperial  Censor, 
that  post  which  is  peculiar  to  China,  so  distinguished 
and  yet  so  hazardous,  whose  duties  consisted  of  a 
supervision  of  the  conduct  of  the  Sovereign,  and  if 
need  be,  of  regulating  it.  This  was  at  the  Court  of 
Tchane-Gane  in  that  enchanted  period  which  had  be- 
come a  poet's  paradise  by  the  grace  of  that  intense  ad- 

[13] 


mirer  of  beautiful  poetry,  Ming-Hoang-Ti.  The 
high-principled  Censor,  however,  was  not  the  man  to 
flatter  his  master;  one  of  his  reprimands  proved  too 
serious  for  endurance  and  Thou-Fou  fell  into  dis- 
grace, was  exiled  from  the  Court  and  never  consoled 
himself.  The  poem  bearing  the  title  * 'Mid- Autumn" 
is  one  of  those  in  which  he  gives  vent  most  poignantly 
to  his  grief.  In  it  a  curious  coincidence  is  noticeable. 
At  all  times  and  in  every  nation,  poets  are  found  to 
voice  similar  sentiments.  Ten  centuries  before  Vic- 
tor Hugo,  this  Chinese  exile  reckoned  the  years  by 
means  of  Nature's  manifestations:  "Twice  already," 
he  said,  "have  I  seen  the  chrysanthemums  bloom." 
And  during  the  third  October  of  his  exile,  Hugo 
said:  ''Pour  la  troisieme  fois,  je  vols  les  pommes 
mures/* 

A  woman's  name  is  rather  rare  among  those  poets 
whose  fame  has  been  established  by  posterity.  There 
are  a  few,  however,  and  that  of  Ly-y-Hane  seems 
to  have  been  considered  in  the  first  rank.  She  lived 
during  the  Song  Dynasty,  in  the  twelfth  century  of 
our  era.  The  Chinese  admire  Ly-y-Hane,  not  only 
as  a  clever  and  graceful  composer  of  verses,  but  as  a 
superior  intellect  and  a  true  scholar,  accustomed  to 
all  the  minutiae  and  intricacies  of  the  art  of  poetry. 
In  fact,  she  makes  light  of  them,  and  accomplishes 
strange  metres  and  singular  innovations  with  such 
freedom  that  one  is  forced  to  forgive  and  admire  her 
audacity. 

[14] 


The  incurable  wound  of  her  heart,  bleeding  in  soli- 
tude, is  practically  the  only  subject  with  which  Ly- 
y-Hane  deals,  but  the  isolation,  the  seclusion  and  the 
impotence  in  the  face  of  action,  characteristics  of  the 
Chinese  woman,  are  all  poignantly  expressed  in  her 
verses.  As  far  as  can  be  known,  the  love  that  devours 
this  Chinese  Sappho  is  ignored  by  him  who  inspires 
it;  possibly  she  has  never  even  seen  him,  and  she 
makes  no  effort  to  show  herself  or  to  attract  him  to 
her.  The  fact  of  her  being  a  woman,  customs  and 
the  conventions  make  it  impossible.  One  might  say 
she  was  a  flower  become  enamoured  of  a  bird ;  with 
neither  voice  nor  wings,  she  can  only  diffuse  her  pas- 
sion-scented soul  as  she  prepares  to  die. 

In  her  verses  Ly-y-Hane  always  unites  her  grief 
with  the  sphere  in  which  she  lives,  her  encircling 
universe,  or  at  least  as  much  of  it  as  she  can  see  from 
her  window.  The  changing  seasons  are  the  only 
events,  the  objects  that  adorn  her  home  the  only  evi- 
dences of  a  life  consecrated  to  the  expression  of  a 
single  sentiment.  A  detailed  biography  would 
throw  no  more  light  on  her  existence  than  do  her 
poems,  in  which  she  reveals  simultaneously  her  re- 
markable talent  and  her  overpowering  mental  agony. 
She  lived  entombed  with  her  suffering,  hoping  never 
to  be  deprived  of  it  or  cured,  and  she  named  in  ad- 
vance the  volume  that  posterity  would  perhaps  collect 
of  all  her  scattered  verses:  "The  Debris  of  My 
Heart." 


[15] 


In  order  to  give  an  adequate  idea  of  Chinese  versi- 
fication, of  its  complicated  rules  and  infinite  refine- 
ments, a  much  longer  study  would  be  necessary.  To 
understand  and  admire  a  work  of  art  there  is  happily 
no  need  of  being  acquainted  with  its  technicalities; 
therefore  a  few  words  will  be  sufficient  to  indicate 
the  most  interesting  rules  from  our  point  of  view. 
Either  the  Chinese,  as  it  is  often  said,  have  invented 
and  worked  it  all  out,  or  else  the  mind  of  man  hits 
upon  the  same  devices  in  different  countries  simul- 
taneously. This  much,  at  least,  is  true ;  the  principal 
rules  of  Chinese  versification  are  identical  with  ours, 
and  they  date  back  forty  centuries:  as  for  instance, 
the  division  of  lines  into  an  equal  number  of  syllables ; 
the  caesura;  the  rhyme;  and  the  division  of  verses 
into  four  lines.  In  a  quatrain,  the  two  first  and  the 
last  lines  rhyme ;  the  third  does  not  rhyme.  The  fol- 
lowing fragment  is  given  as  an  example : 

IN  THE  PALACE 
Tsi  tsi  hoa  chy — pi  y  mene. 
Hiei  jen  siang  ping — ly  khiang  hiene 
Han  tsing  yo  chouo — khouan  tchon  sse.  .  .  , 
Ying  ou  tsien  teou — pou  kan  yene. 

A  charming  and  original  effect,  a  quality  possessed 
only  by  Chinese  poetry,  results  from  the  ideographic 
nature  of  the  characters;  one  gets  a  definite  impres- 
sion from  the  appearance  of  the  writing,  and  an  un- 
expected vision  of  the  whole  poem.  The  flowers,  the 
forests,  the  streams,  and  the  moonlight,  all  these  pre- 

[.6] 


sent  themselves  before  one  has  commenced  to  read. 
For  example,  in  the  poem  of  Li-Tai-Pe,  "Good  For- 
tune on  the  High-road,"  the  effect  at  first  glance  is 
of  prancing  horses,  and  before  knowing  what  he  will 
say,  one  seems  to  see  the  poet  riding  haughtily  among 
the  flowers. 

Today  in  China,  as  of  old,  the  words  and  music  are 
always  united;  the  poems  are  not  recited  but  sung, 
and  in  most  cases  the  singing  is  accompanied  by  the 
Chinese  lyre,  the  *'Kine."  But  this  sacred  instrument 
can  only  vibrate  in  the  presence  of  burning  incense 
and  before  those  who  are  mentally  fitted  to  listen,  for 
its  delicate  strings  break  if  their  waves  of  melody 
encounter  unattuned  ears. 

Twelve  centuries  before  Orpheus  and  fifteen  be- 
fore David  and  Homer,  the  Chinese  poets  were  sing- 
ing their  verses  to  the  music  of  the  lyre,  and  they  are 
unique  in  that  they  are  singing  still,  almost  in  the 
same  language  and  to  the  same  melodies. 


[17] 


Chinese  Lyrics 


Mid-River 

In  my  boat  rocked  by  the  river, 
gently  rocked  while  the  daylight  lasts, 
I  row  and  I  gaze  at  the  mountains, 
glassed  in  the  water. 

I  have  now  no  other  love 

but  the  love  of  wine, 

and  my  cup  full  of  wine  is  before  me. 

Once  I  had  in  my  heart  a  thousand  sorrows, 

but  now  .  .  . 

I  look  at  the  mountains, 

glassed  in  the  water. 

Tchang-Tsi 


[21] 


To  the  Most  Beautiful  Woman  of  the 
Flower  Boat 

I  HAVE  sung  songs  to  you 
with  my  flute  of  ebony, 
songs  telling  of  my  sadness, 
but  you  did  not  hear. 

I  have  written  verses 

praising  your  beauty, 

but  you  have  thrown  the  gorgeous  sheets 

that  bore  my  poems 

disdainfully  into  the  water. 

Then  I  gave  you  a  huge  sapphire, 
a  dark  sapphire  like  the  sky  at  night, 
and  for  that  sapphire  you  have  shown  me 
the  little  pearls  of  your  mouth. 

Ouan-Tsi. 


[22] 


On  the  Road  to  Tchi-Li 

I  SIT  by  the  wayside  on  a  fallen  tree, 

and  gaze  along  the  road 

that  stretches  before  me  to  Tchi-Li. 

This  morning 

the  blue  satin  of  my  shoes  glistened  like  steel, 

and  one  could  see  the  black-embroidered  traceries; 

but  now  my  shoes  are  covered  with  dust. 

When  I  set  out 

the  sun  was  laughing  in  the  sky, 
the  butterflies  hovered  around  me, 
and  I  counted  the  white  daisies, 
scattered  through  the  grass 
like  handfuls  of  pearls. 

It  is  evening  now, 

and  there  are  no  daisies. 

Swallows  dart  by  swiftly  at  my  feet; 

crows  are  calling  each  other  to  rest, 

and  labourers  are  entering  the  villages  near  by, 

with  their  plaits  wrapped  round  their  heads. 


[23] 


But  for  me  there  are  many  miles  to  go ; 

I  will  compose  a  poem, 

as  full  of  sadness  as  my  lonely  heart, 

and  with  a  rhythm  so  difficult 

that  the  road  to  Tchi-Li  will  seem  too  short. 

Tin-Tun-Ling. 


[24] 


Song  on  the  River 

My  boat  is  of  ebony; 

the  holes  in  my  flute  are  golden. 

As  a  plant  takes  out  stains  from  silk, 
so  wine  takes  sadness  from  the  heart. 

When  one  has  good  wine, 

a  graceful  boat, 

and  a  maiden's  love, 

why  envy  the  immortal  gods? 

Li-Tdi-Pe. 


[25] 


Intoxication  of  Love 

The  petals  of  the  water-lilies  tremble 

as  the  wind  murmurs 

through  the  Palace  of  the  Waters. 

The  King  of  Lou 

lounges  idly  on  the  terrace  of  Kou-Sou; 

before  him  is  Sy-Che; 

she  is  dancing, 

and  her  movements  are  rhythmic 

and  full  of  delicate  grace. 

Then  she  laughs, 

sensuous  in  her  weariness ; 

she  leans  against  the  royal  white  jade  bed, 

and  gazes  towards  the  east. 

Li-Ta't-Pe. 


[26] 


A  Dwelling  in  the  Heart 

Cruel  flames  laid  waste  the  house  where  I  was  born; 
I  put  to  sea  in  my  gilded  ship 
to  lessen  my  despair. 

I  took  my  flute  and  played  to  the  moon, 
but  she  hid  her  face  with  a  cloud 
for  my  song  was  sad. 

Disheartened  I  turned  back  to  the  mountain, 

but  I  found  no  solace  there ; 

childhood  joys  seemed  to  vanish  with  my  home. 

I  wished  for  death; 

but  then  the  moon  seemed  mirrored  in  the  sea, 

and  past  me  sped  a  maiden  in  her  bark. 

Were  it  her  wish, 

I'd  build  another  dwelling 

in  her  heart. 

Thou-Fou, 


[27] 


The  Birds  Are  Singing  at  Dusk 

At  dusk  a  cool  wind 

blows  the  song  of  birds  to  a  window 

where  a  maiden  is  sitting. 

She  is  embroidering  a  piece  of  silk 
with  bright  flowers. 

She  lifts  her  head ; 
her  work  falls  from  her  hands 
for  her  thoughts  have  flown  to  him 
who  is  far  away. 

"It  is  easy  for  a  bird  to  find  its  mate 

among  the  branches, 

but  all  the  tears 

that  fall  like  the  rain  of  heaven 

from  a  maiden's  eyes 

will  not  recall  her  well-beloved." 

She  bends  over  her  work  once  more: 
•'I  will  weave  a  fragment  of  verse 
among  the  flowers  of  his  robe, 
and  perhaps  its  words  will  tell  him  to  return." 

Li-Ta'i-Pe. 

[28] 


The  Cormorant 

The  cormorant  meditates, 

standing  motionless  and  alone 

at  the  river's  edge ; 

his  round  eye  follows  the  flowing  water. 

If  a  passer-by  comes  too  near, 

he  flaps  away  balancing  his  head 

and  waits  in  the  thicket  for  the  intruder  to  go, 

wishing  to  gaze  again 

upon  the  undulations  of  the  stream. 

And  at  night 

when  the  moon  shines  upon  the  waves, 

the  cormorant  meditates, 

standing  with  one  foot  in  the  water. 

Thus  a  man  whose  heart  is  burning  with  passion 
follows  the  undulations  of  a  thought. 

Su-Tong-Po. 


[29] 


The  Shoreless  Sea 

Oh  dragon, 

you  who  rule  the  shoreless  sea  of  death, 

steal  away  my  loved  one 

while,  bending  over  her  in  passionate  musing, 

I  drink  in  her  breath , 

bear  her  away  on  your  ghostly  ship, 

and  take  me  with  her 

so  we  may  sail  together  always, 

drunk  with  love. 

Li-Hung-Chang. 
19th  Century. 


[30] 


Moonlight 

The  full  moon  rises  out  of  the  water; 
the  sea  becomes  a  plate  of  silver. 

On  a  boat  friends  drink  cups  of  wine, 
and  they  watch  the  little  moonlit  clouds 
hover  above  the  mountain. 

Some  say — 

the  white-robed  wives  of  the  Emperor, 

others — 

a  flock  of  swans. 

Li-Oey, 


[31] 


The  Wild  Swans 

Before  daybreak  the  breezes  whisper 
through  the  trellis  at  my  window ; 
they  interrupt  and  carry  off  my  dream, 
and  he  of  whom  I  dreamed 
vanishes  from  me. 

I  climb  upstairs 

to  look  from  the  topmost  window, 

but  with  whom?  .  .  . 

I  remember  how  I  used  to  stir  the  fire 

with  my  hairpin  of  jade 

as  I  am  doing  now  .  .  . 

but  the  brasier  holds  nothing  but  ashes. 

I  turn  to  look  at  the  mountain ; 

there  is  a  thick  mist, 

a  dismal  rain, 

and  I  gaze  down  at  the  wind-dappled  river, 

the  river  that  flows  past  me  forever 

without  bearing  away  my  sorrow. 

I  have  kept  the  rain  of  my  tears 
on  the  crape  of  my  tunic; 

[32] 


with  a  gesture  I  fling  these  bitter  drops 
to  the  wild  swans  on  the  river, 
that  they  may  be  my  messengers. 

Ly-y-Hane. 


[33] 


At  the  River  s  Edge 

At  the  river's  edge 

maidens  are  bathing  among  the  water-lilies; 

they  are  hidden  from  the  shore, 

but  their  laughter  can  be  heard, 

and  on  the  bank 

their  silken  robes  perfume  the  wind. 

A  youth  on  horseback  passes  near; 

one  of  the  maidens  feels  her  heart  beat  faster, 

and  she  blushes  deeply. 

Then  she  hides  herself 

among  the  clustered  water-lilies. 

Li-Tdi-Pe. 


[34] 


The  Leaf  on  the  Water 

[The  wind  tears  a  leaf  from  the  willow  tree; 
it  falls  lightly  upon  the  water, 
and  the  waves  carry  it  away. 

Time  has  gradually  effaced  a  memory 

from  my  heart, 

and  I  watch  the  willow  leaf  drifting  awa^j 

on  the  waves ; 

since  I  have  forgotten  her 

whom  I  loved, 

I  dream  the  day  through  in  sadness, 

lying  at  the  water's  edge. 

But  the  willow  leaf  floated  back 

under  the  tree, 

and  it  seemed  to  me 

that  the  memory  could  never  be  effaced 

from  my  heart. 

Ouan-Tsi, 


[35] 


The  Great  Rat 

Oh  cruel  ravenous  rat, 

do  not  devour  all  my  grain  I 

For  three  long  years 

I  have  endured  the  outrage  of  your  savage  teeth, 

and  vainly  sought  to  curb  you 

with  my  tears. 

But  now  at  last  I  go; 

I  shall  flee  your  awful  power ; 

I  shall  build  a  house  in  distant  lands, 

in  happy  lands 

where  remorse  lasts  but  a  day. 

Sao-Nan. 


[36] 


The  Forbidden  Flower 

My  boat  rocks 

beneath  the  autumn  moon. 

Alone 

I  drift  on  the  Southern  Lake, 

plucking  the  white  lotus  flowers. 

A  desire  consumes  me; 

I  would  declare  my  passion  for  them, 

but  alas  .  .  . 

my  boat  glides  on 

at  the  mercy  of  the  cunning  waves, 

and  my  heart  is  plunged  in  sadness. 

Li-Tai-Pe. 


[37] 


Vengeance 

"Ah,  the  cock  crows  1" 

"Not  yet,  beloved,  for  it  is  still  night." 

"Arise,  arise!  pull  back  the  curtains; 

search  the  heavens." 

"Alas,  the  morning  star  has  arisen." 

"Ah  I  it  is  the  dawn ; 

the  hour  has  come, 

but  first  take  vengeance  on  him 

who  separates  us; 

seize  your  bow  and  kill  the  cock." 

Unknown. 


[38] 


The  Fisherman 

The  earth  has  drunk  the  snow, 

and  now  the  plum  trees  are  blossoming  once  more. 

The  willow  leaves  are  like  new  gold; 
the  lake  is  molten  silver. 

It  is  the  hour 

when  sulphur-laden  butterflies 

rest  their  velvet  heads  upon  the  flowers. 

A  fisherman  casts  forth  his  nets 

from  a  motionless  boat, 

and  the  surface  of  the  lake  is  broken. 

His  thoughts  are  at  home  with  her 
to  whom  he  will  return  with  food, 
like  a  swallow  to  its  mate. 

Li-Tai-Pe. 


[39] 


Before  Her  Mirror 
Sitting  before  her  mirror. 


■) 


she  gazes  at  the  floor 

where  the  bamboo  curtain  breaks  the  moonlight 

into  a  thousand  bits  of  jade. 

Instead  of  combing  her  hair 

she  raises  the  curtain, 

and  in  the  room  it  is  as  though  a  woman, 

robed  in  white  silk, 

had  let  fall  her  mantle. 

Tchan-Jo-Su. 


[40] 


The  Porcelain  Pavilion 

Out  in  the  artificial  lake 

there  is  a  pavilion  of  green  and  white  porcelain ; 

it  is  reached  by  a  bridge  of  jade, 

arched  like  the  back  of  a  tiger. 

In  the  pavilion  friends  in  bright-coloured  robes 
are  drinking  cups  of  cool  Wint ; 
they  chatter  and  scribble  verses, 
their  sleeves  tucked  up, 
their  hats  pushed  back. 

In  the  water 

where  the  reflected  bridge 

seems  a  crescent  of  jade, 

the  friends  in  bright-coloured  robes 

are  drinking  heads  downward 

in  a  porcelain  pavilion. 

Li-  Tai-Pe. 


[41] 


The  Tranquil  River 

Men  may  look  at  the  moon  all  their  lives ; 

it  crosses  the  sky 

as  a  tranquil  river  follows  its  course, 

never  faltering  or  lingering  behind, 

but  men's  thoughts  are  ephemeral 

and  vi^andering. 

Tchan-Jo-Su. 


[42] 


The  Willow  Leaf 

The  maiden  who  gazes  dreamily  from  her  window 

resting  on  her  elbows, — 

I  do  not  love  her  for  her  splendid  palace 

on  the  banks  of  the  Yellow  River; 

I  love  her 

because  she  has  dropped  a  little  willow  leaf 

into  the  water. 

I  do  not  love  the  breeze  from  the  east 

because  it  brings  me 

the  scent  of  the  blossoming  peach  trees 

that  whiten  the  Oriental  Mountain ; 

I  love  it 

because  it  has  blown  the  little  willow  leaf 

close  to  my  boat. 

And  the  little  willow  leaf, — 

I  do  not  love  it  for  reminding  me 

of  the  tender  spring 

that  has  just  flowered  again ; 

I  love  it 

because  the  maiden  has  written  a  name  on  it 

with  the  point  of  her  embroidery  needle, 

and  because  that  name  is  mine. 

Tchan-Tiou-Lin. 

[43] 


Youth 

The  care-free  youth 

who  lives  on  the  road  of  the  Imperial  Tombs, 

near  the  Gold  Market  of  the  East, 

sets  out  from  his  dwelling 

into  the  fresh  spring  wind. 

The  step  of  his  white  horse 

saddled  in  silver 

is  graceful  and  full  of  rhythm. 

There  is  a  whirlwind  of  petals  underfoot, 

for  the  fallen  blossoms 

form  a  thick  carpet  everywhere. 

Now  he  slackens  his  pace, 

perplexed  .  .  . 

a  laugh  greets  him  from  a  nearby  thicket, 

musical  and  clear; 

he  is  no  longer  perplexed. 

Li-Tai-Pe. 


[44] 


Thoughts  on  the  Seventh  Month 

I  DREAM  among  the  flowers 

of  my  garden, 

sipping  wine  clear  as  jade. 

The  wind  caresses  my  cheeks, 

it  cools  the  scorching  air; 

but  how  glad  I  shall  be  of  my  cloak 

when  winter  comes  again. 

In  the  summer  of  her  beauty, 

a  woman  is  like  the  wind  in  August; 

she  sweetens  our  lives. 

But  when  the  white  silk  of  age 

covers  her  head, 

we  avoid  her 

like  the  wind  in  winter. 

Li-Ta't-Pe. 


[45] 


The  Autumn  Wind 
The  autumn  wind  rises, 


^j 


white  clouds  are  flying  before  it, 
yellow  leaves  are  torn  from  the  trees 
by  the  river. 

Already  the  wild  geese  are  winging  their  way 

towards  the  south, 

the  rose  is  sweet  no  longer, 

and  petals  are  falling 

from  the  lotus  flowers. 

I  must  see  her  whom  I  love 

and  can  never  forget; 

I  jump  into  my  boat 

to  cross  the  river  to  the  pavilion 

where  she  dwells. 

The  stream  is  swift 

and  the  waters, 

darkened  by  the  wind, 

flow  with  a  sound  like  rustling  silk; 

how  far  away  seems  the  other  shore, 

as  far  away  as  ever! 

[46] 


To  give  me  courage 
I  sing  as  I  row, 
but  my  songs  are  sad 
and  make  my  toil  heavier. 

My  heart  is  young  and  ardent; 

it  flies  before  me 

and  pitilessly  leaves  me. 

Have  the  winds  of  so  many  autumns 

broken  my  strength? 

is  it  the  image  of  an  old  man 

that  trembles  up  at  me 

from  the  water? 

The  Emperor  Ou-Ty. 
Han  Dynasty,  140  B.  C 


[47] 


A  Poet  Smiles 

The  little  lake  is  as  still  and  clear 
as  a  cup  full  of  water. 

On  the  shore 

the  bamboos  are  like  huts, 

roofed  by  the  green  foliage  of  the  trees, 

and  the  tall  pointed  rocks 

rising  out  of  the  flowers 

are  like  pagodas. 

I  let  my  boat  drift  gently, 
and  I  smile  at  Nature 
imitating  Man. 

Ouan-Tsi. 


[48] 


The  Fan 

The  bride  is  sitting  in  the  Perfumed  Chamber 
to  which  the  bridegroom  came  for  the  first  time 
the  night  before. 

She  holds  up  her  fan; 

she  reads  the  writing  on  it: 

"when  the  air  is  stifling 

and  no  wind  blows, 

I  am  sought  for,  beloved  for  my  freshness; 

but  when  the  wind  stirs 

and  the  air  is  cold, 

I  am  disdained 

and  forgotten." 

As  she  reads  these  words 

the  young  wife  dreams  of  her  husband; 

sad  thoughts  assail  her: 

*'his  heart  is  burning  now 

with  youthful  passion, 

he  comes  here  to  refresh  his  heart; 

but  when  time  chills  it, 

perhaps  I  too  will  be  disdained 

and  forgotten." 

Tchan-Jo-Su. 

[49] 


A  Young  Poet  Dreams  of  His  Beloved 
Who  Lives  Across  the  River 

The  moon  floats  to  the  bosom  of  the  sky 

and  rests  there  like  a  lover; 

the  evening  wind  passes  over  the  lake, 

touches  and  passes, 

kissing  the  happy  shivering  waters. 

How  serene  the  joy, 

when  things  that  are  made  for  each  other 

meet  and  are  joined ; 

but  ah, — 

how  rarely  they  meet  and  are  joined, 

the  things  that  are  made  for  each  other. 

Sao-Nan. 


[so] 


On  the  River 

A  SINGLE  gray  cloud  is  floating 

in  the  sky, 

and  my  boat  is  alone 

on  the  river. 

Now  the  moon  is  climbing  the  heavens, 
and  sinking  into  the  water ; 
the  cloud  is  gray  no  longer 
and  I  am  happier  in  my  boat 
alone  on  the  river. 

Tchan-Jo-Su. 


[5'] 


To  Forget  Ones  Thoughts 


Let  us  rejoice  together, 

and  fill  our  porcelain  goblets  again 

>vith  cool  wine ; 

though  the  joyous  spring  is.  waning  now, 

it  will  return. 


Let  us  drink  while  we  are  thirsty, 
and  perhaps  we  shall  forget 
we  are  at  the  winter  of  our  lives 
and  the  flowers  are  fading. 

Ouan-Ouu 


[52] 


On  the  River  Tchou 

My  boat  glides  swiftly 

beneath  the  wide  cloud-ridden  sky, 

and  as  I  look  into  the  river 

I  can  see  the  clouds  drift  by  the  moon ; 

my  boat  seems  floating 

on  the  sky. 

And  thus  I  dream 

my  beloved  is  mirrored 

on  my  heart. 

ThoU'Fou, 


[53] 


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